


Wane, Wither

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bondage, Both characters currently adults, Child Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Grooming, Incest, M/M, Painful Sex, Painplay, Past Abuse, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pregnancy Kink, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Lukas, Transphobia, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Peter has and always will be a victim of fealty to his family.
Relationships: Nathaniel Lukas/Peter Lukas
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31
Collections: Anonymous





	Wane, Wither

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed warnings.
> 
> Language used for transman's genitalia: cunt

It might be age. It might be Forsaken being stripped from him by the ropes around his wrists behind his back, the carpet burning his knees, the heat of the hearth on his bare skin, his uncle’s thumb pulling open his jaw.

“You look so different now,” Nathaniel says. He’s eye-level with Peter, though he’s only on one knee as opposed to Peter’s two. That’s supposed to mean something. Games that Peter finds boring and patronizing.

He glares, but he doesn’t dare bite Nathaniel’s thumb. It glides along the crown of his bottom row teeth. Lightly. Taunting. He just wants to get this over with. 

Nathaniel stands, continues with, “But uncle’s glad you seem to still remember your training.” He pulls out his cock and roughly shoves it into Peter’s waiting mouth. Peter gags. His throat catches and clicks, and Nathaniel grinds against his face.

“You do remember, right?” he asks.

Peter has no answer.

“Good.”

Nathaniel uses Peter’s mouth lazily, meaning to be first-and-foremostly aggravating. The weight of Nathaniel's cock chokes any air from reaching Peter's lungs, until Peter's allowed a breath of reprieve when it sits on his tongue. Then the languid push back down starts again, met each time with resistance from Peter's throat, which Nathaniel appreciates, if his groans are anything to go by. Nathaniel is patient enough to have fun with gradual suffocation; Peter is not. It doesn’t stop the “training” from still being effective. Decades have passed since he was freely Nathaniel’s plaything and Peter’s cunt still clenches around nothing, wanting. And he’s surely getting wet.

He hates Nathaniel, hated him from the moment Nathaniel cornered him as a child for his “special lessons” to be inducted into Forsaken. Nathaniel had made it very clear that Peter was the _only_ one who would be getting this treatment. The first lesson, Peter had guessed.

Nathaniel yanks Peter’s head back and frees his cock from Peter’s throat and forces Peter to retch. All slimy spit and mucus that drools down Peter’s lips and beard. Nathaniel leans down and kindly wipes it away.

“You were such a pretty girl,” he says. “I remember the first time I saw you after your little transformation. Such a waste.”

Peter remembers, too. He remembers Nathaniel pulling him aside after the formalities and bending him over in a closet to make sure Peter hadn’t lost the _important_ bits. And Nathaniel had, of course, made sure they were still functional.

Nathaniel’s hand trails from Peter’s chin, down his neck, to his chest and the scars there. “I’ve missed these the most. You were always so developed for your age.”

Peter doesn’t miss the bruises and bites and scratches, nor having to feel them all for days after. Reminders of a part of him he never agreed with.

The true tragedy of all this, however, is that they are now two aged men, and Peter can’t help but bend himself low to the ground as Nathaniel takes his place behind him. Years and years haven’t stopped Peter from being the same scared little girl who cried when her uncle locked her in a closet for his later use. He will never be able to reject Nathaniel, as much as he distances himself, alone on the sea, uninvolved in his family’s other ventures. 

His siblings were strong in a way he wasn’t - isn’t. He still moans and accepts his uncle’s cock into his cunt and he can _hear_ how disgustingly wet he is. As if his body misses Nathaniel.

"Good to know this still works," Nathaniel says, once he's buried himself fully. "I'd always planned to fill you up with a child, remember? How many times you foiled that. Don't know if age would allow it anymore."

Peter grits his teeth. Their child would be the _perfect_ avatar, Nathaniel had said. How isolating to be a product of incest. A mother that hated it from conception. A family that would never help it understand.

Nathaniel runs a hand softly up Peter's side. "I'll still try, dear." That hand trails possessively around to Peter’s abdomen. “I wouldn’t be wrong to assume you’d enjoy seeing yourself swell up with our child.”

He’s wrong, so very wrong, but that doesn’t stop Peter from clenching around Nathaniel at the suggestion, thinking that his uncle could express even more ownership over him. Peter pushes his hips back, grinds Nathaniel’s cock deep into himself. To get this over more quickly, to feel more at home, both interchangeable.

There has never been a comfort Peter could achieve that paralleled that which arose from the fear his uncle gave him. It was the fear of knowing that no one would ever save him. He knows it still, and whether it is resignation or a fear so powerful it numbs him dead, he’s grown addicted to it.

Peter is alone. He has always been alone. And it is all he ever expects or wants to be. 

It’s so cold here but for the heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, dripping down his thighs.

“Hmm?” Nathaniel nudges.

“I would like to bear your child, Uncle,” Peter recites.

Nathaniel digs the heel of his hand into the back of Peter’s skull, driving his face against the carpet.

“You need to pay attention,” he says. “Always spacing out when I’m with you. It’s disrespectful.”

Peter grits his teeth. He thinks of the cold of the _Tundra_ , a safer cold where he won’t have to think about another’s hands or words. He’ll be there soon.

“Yes, Uncle.”

Nathaniel fucks him carelessly, like, or rather that, he is just a hole to be used. Peter hardly recognizes the sound of his voice. His own moans high in a throat no longer accustomed to them. It makes him sound even more ragged, all but crying into the floor. It hurts - it _should_ hurt. Nathaniel likes knowing Peter hurts.

The sounds of Nathaniel’s grunts are far more familiar to Peter. They’re still disgusting, still validating. It feels _good_ \- the hurt feels so _good_. Nathaniel pounds into him, and Peter’s knees ache. He strains against his bonds, pants brokenly into the carpet, his open mouth allowing drool to roll down and soak it. The dark carpet blurs. It’s painted bright by quick strokes of the flickering flame that become a flurry of light to Peter’s unfocused eyes. 

It hurts - it hurts and hurts, hurts too raw and too real. He’s stretched too much, too thin. His uncle is fucking him, and no one will save him. No one cares enough to. To this day, his uncle can turn to him for an easy fuck just as well as he could the day he took Peter's virginity. Peter hates himself for that. He’s weak, and for all that he protests the pain, each rough thrust that splits him open brings him closer to his climax. Beyond whatever masochistic pleasure he gets from being his uncle’s favorite whore, his body still loves being broken again and again by Nathaniel’s cock. Hitting every spot inside him that sends sparks up his spine. Nathaniel had trained him well and earns the orgasm he forces from Peter, who shakes and sobs through it, tightens down even harder on Nathaniel. 

Nathaniel laughs. He cards a hand through Peter’s hair unlovingly, then sets to coming himself. The brutal pace is uncomfortable through the overstimulation. The carpet suddenly too stinging against Peter's cheek, his chest. The world is coming back to Peter, peeking through the untetheredness of his surrender to Nathaniel. Thankfully, it is over soon, no warning given before Nathaniel fills Peter’s worn cunt, pulling out towards the end to streak the mouth of it. One last little indignity as a parting gift.

Peter stays on the ground, as he’s wordlessly instructed to. Nathaniel quickly gathers himself before Peter can get too comfortable with the presence of another person. When Peter's eyes flutter closed, he can imagine the closet door shutting out the light, but the hearth still dances patterns against the back of his eyelids. It's not the same, somewhat. They're different now, but little has changed. Nathaniel's drying come still feels disgusting. Peter's cunt still feels so empty without him.

Nathaniel leaves behind the few words that still have Peter shivering with anticipation. Simply, “I’ll miss you.”


End file.
